Parched
by Ghost-Tongued
Summary: He met her under unusual, dire circumstances and he expected to never see her again afterwards. That is until one day she just waltzed into the Ninth Circle, sporting a slim scar on her jaw where he'd punched her. [Just did some minor revisions and combined chapters - give them a new read! I also added something to warrant its new rating.]
1. Prologue

**Recommendation(s):**  
_Page Width:_ Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

_Light/Dark:_ This chapter is best read on the** light** background setting because it deals with nighttime and dark thoughts.

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_Author's Note:_ This is the first "story" I've started in over three years now, so forgive me as I try to work out my rusty elbows and get into character with Charon. All feedback and critiques are, as always, welcomed!

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**Prologue**

He glared at her as a way of intimidation. It was his only weapon considering that they were both stripped to nothing but their undergarments, making it easy to determine that neither were armed.

They stood on either side of the blindingly lit chamber, sizing one another up.

Her had arms clenched tightly against her chest, regarding him cautiously.

Despite the spacious expansion of the room, he could still see the faint tremors from the chillness of the room raked up and down her slender, creamy-toned body.

There was an intelligence in the way that she'd been quietly analyzing the chamber since she awoke - possibly for any weaknesses in the curved, metallic walls and shimmering energy field currently filling the doorway. She exuded a level of experience and resourcefulness that he knew only came with living in the Wasteland, and if that were the case, then it would explain why she hadn't broken down into hysterics.

Because panic in the Wasteland only served to get you killed.

"Do you know Gob?"

He squinted an eye at her, a little put off by such an unexpected question. He'd expected her to bombard him with questions of where they were, why they were there, who _he_ was, and if he knew a way of escape.

That suspected intelligence that he'd seen in her was much more than what he'd originally thought it seemed.

She must have already decided that he knew just as little as she did: They were in an enclosed cell, surrounded by advanced technology and machines; he didn't know who brought him here or why except for the fragmented memories of being lifted up off the ground by a harsh light; if he knew a way to escape, he wouldn't have been there for her to ask that question.

She smiled and waved her hand dismissively. "A weird question, I know. It's just that Gob is a ghoul, too, so I figured maybe you might've known him or something." She paused before her eyes widened in realization, warm flash gracing her cheeks. "God, that's racist, isn't it? Oh, jeez, I'm sorry! I don't know why I assumed you knew each other all because you're ghouls. It's like saying I know every human. Not saying that you're not human, I mean! Well, you are but you're not, you know? Okay, I'm just going to shut up. I feel so embarrassed right n-"

He continued to watch her intently, ignoring her babbling.

So, she knew what a ghoul was.

Which meant that he was correct in his presumption of her being from the Wastes. Originally, her near flawless skin had put doubt in his mind. At least now he knew that she must have crawled from a Vault somewhere.

He grunted as a way of response, causing her to pause in her flustered ramblings.

Yes, he _did_ know Gob, back when the ghoul still resided in Underworld.

Her posture visibly relaxed, clearly relieved that they had a commonality in something, and flashed him another smile.

"My name is Jillian, by the way. But for the love of all things good, _please_ call me Beetle."

She stared at him expectantly.

In the lieu of wondering how the hell she ended up with that unusual nickname, he considered the consequences of offering her anymore information on him. He'd already admitted that he knew someone who he presumed she was on a friendly basis with. To give a name at this point would provide her with an even stronger link back to him if either she or they both made it back to the Wasteland, thus back to Ahzrukhal.

He decided against it and instead crossed his arms across the ruined skin and exposed pectoral muscles of his naked chest, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Her smile bloomed into resigned grin and she conceded to him with a brief nod. "All right, I get it. You don't trust me." She began looking around again, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as she murmured, "However, we're _going_ to need to trust each other if we're going to get out of here. So, any ideas?"

He admired that intellect of hers; however, he had to wonder how she survived in the Wastes _and_ keep such flawless skin if she was so quick to put her trust in people she didn't know.

For the first time since she was dropped, still heavily sedated, into the prison chamber, he spoke.

"The last person who asked me about any plans opted to take his chances with the aliens."

He saw a brief spark of delight in her eyes when he'd spoken, and she flashed him a row of uncommonly straight, white teeth in a smile. "For a moment there, I thought you couldn't form words. Good thing I was wrong. So, then, what was this proposed escape plan of yours that had the last guy running?"

He felt the corners of his chapped lips upturn into a small, snide smile. "The plan was to beat the shit out of him."

She blinked dumbly at him. "Uh . . ."

He uncrossed one of his arms and jabbed a scarred thumb over his shoulder, directing her attention to the mechanical, crimson-lit eye that made another pass behind him. "See that thing? The aliens who brought us here are watching us through those."

Her lips parted slightly to form an 'o' and she titled her head up, watching with a renewed sense of awareness as the two mechanical eyes continued their consistent revolutions.

She then slid him a suspicious look from the corner of her eye. "And how, exactly, did you find _that_ out?"

His locked his gaze with hers and spoke matter-of-factly. "When I went to throw the first punch. The kid cowered from me, saying that he'd 'changed his mind'. The aliens came in not a second later and hit me with electrified rods. I remember hearing him thanking them as they dragged him away."

Silence fell between them as he concluded the story. The gentle whirring of the rotating mechanical eyes and the beeps of distant machines kept the room from getting too uncomfortable as she stared at him, weighing her options.

His gaze fell to her mouth when she drew the tip of her tongue along the fullness of her bottom lip, moistening it before she spoke again.

"Well . . . I'm guessing the last guy wasn't as busy as me. See, I owe a few people favors back in the Wasteland and I was on a personal mission before I was brought here." She dropped her arms to her side and she leveled him with a friendly but now nervous smile. "So, uh, do me a favor and try to _not_ take my head off, okay?"

He felt a distinct appreciation for such courageousness in that wisp of a body, especially considering that he had destroyed men bigger than her who weren't this ballsy.

There was a bit of malice that he couldn't stop from creeping into his smirk as he stretched and rotated his shoulder. He recognized a challenge when he saw one, regardless if it was or wasn't meant to intentionally antagonize.

"Then I suggest you don't cry, smoothskin."

The flexing of exposed muscle was her only warning when he moved.

He was upon her, his arm already cocked back, before she could even blink, her much smaller stature engulfed by the solid wall of his body.

As he threw his clenched fist at her, he couldn't help the twinge of remorse when he realized that he was going to have to mar that beautiful, flawless skin.


	2. Chapter I

**Recommendation(s):**  
_Page Width:_ Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

_Light/Dark:_ This chapter is best read on the** dark **background setting because it deals with nighttime and dark thoughts.

* * *

**Chapter One**

She studied her reflection in the grimy, cracked mirror that was being held for her by Underworld's optimistic hair stylist.

Snowflake had successfully removed the sky-blue dye that she had applied to her hair back when she was seventeen - mainly out of rebellion against the Overseer's unnecessary and tyrannical rules. Now it was restored to its chocolate-brown roots along with a much needed trim.

She smiled at her reflection before looking up at the white-haired ghoul with gratitude and appreciation. "It looks great, Snowflake. Are you _sure_ you don't want any caps for the trouble?"

He waved away her question, smirking as he took a drag from his cigarette. "Nah, smoothskin. As I already said, it's such a rare opportunity to work my magic on a head full of hair, let alone _real_ hair. Trust me when I say that the pleasure has been all mine. If anything, think of this way, kid: You're a walking billboard with that masterpiece."

She grinned. "'Masterpiece'? All you did was strip the dye and trim the split ends."

His smirk became absurdly smug as he crossed his arms and leaned in close. "That's just another testament to my skills. People will comment on how breathtaking your hair is and ask what is so unique about it, and the answer will be, "_Nothing is unique about it. You're simply a witness to the talented hands of the amazing Snowflake_." - Then you can give them directions to Underworld."

She shook her head in amusement and pushed herself out of the chair. She smoothed her fingers through the heavy, damp strands of her thoroughly washed hair before tousling it messily, giving it a gently fluffed appearance.

"Aw, now why the hell did you go and do that?" Snowflake groused, looking a little offended.

She flashed him a grin and opened her mouth to retort but was cut short by a loud commotion. She whipped her head around to stare at the room's adjoining double doors. She heard glass shattering, chairs scraping against and toppling to the floor, and profane exclamations from a female ghoul accenting the air.

She turned back to Snowflake questioningly, but he simply shrugged a shoulder before taking another drag off his cigarette.

"Don't worry your pretty skin over that, kid. Just another drunk who likely stiffed Ahzrukhal on their tab and you heard Charon taking care of it."

She glanced at the double doors again, curiosity teasing her mind.

If there was ever a commonality in every conversation that she'd had in Underworld so far, it was the mentioning of either "Ahzrukhal" or "Charon", both of which didn't seem to harbor anything positive with the other ghouls.

"Um, what can you tell me about Ahzrukhal and Charon?" she asked, looking back at the stylist.

He brows lifted above his shades in mild surprise. "You've been here for, what, three hours and no one has said anything to you about The Ninth Circle?"

"Oh, no, nearly everyone I've talked to has mentioned The Ninth Circle in some fashion - in fact, I was heading there before you caught me. But no one has actually explained to me why there seems to be this . . . dislike for it."

The stylist pushed his shades higher on his nasal bone before crossing his arms, his voice guttural and suddenly solemn. "Well, Ahzrukhal owns and runs The Ninth Circle. Charon is his bouncer and bodyguard. Actually, you could say that Charon's an extension of the bar, but usually Ahzrukhal will say otherwise."

She frowned slightly, a little confused. "I don't understand - what do you mean that he would tell me otherwise?"

A long accepted sadness danced across those decaying features, heightening her uncertainty about this Ahzrukhal character.

"Well," he started, picking distractedly at his cigarette, "everyone here knows that Charon is a slave, but Ahzrukhal will just feed you this line that he's a willing 'employee'. Thing is, smoothskin, I guess he wouldn't be really lyin'. There's this contract that Charon is unconditionally obligated to - something to do with his past and the things some people did to him; did to his mind. Ahzrukhal claims that the contract gives him the complete loyalty of Charon. Doesn't matter who you are or how you got it, Charon is loyal to the contract and if you're the holder of that contract, then he's loyal to _you_. I guess the worst thing about it is that Charon is a killing machine - no conscience to him that any of us have seen."

_Jesus, a goddamned Slaver._ She found herself glaring at the double doors, barely able to reign in her need to confront this Ahzrukhal person in the most aggressive way possible.

"Kid."

The warning in Snowflake's tone had her glancing back at him, her mouth pulled into a tight line.

He shifted a little before bowing his head, leveling her with a hard, unblinking gaze over the rim of his tinted shades.

"Don't do anything stupid, will y'a? I knew were a good person the second you came in here, but if there was ever a time that you needed to take some advice, it's now: _Don't mess in Ahzrukhal's affairs._ If you upset Ahzrukhal, then Charon most likely has prearranged orders to deal with it. Even if he doesn't, all Ahzrukhal has to do is blink and you'll be dead on the floor before you know it, and Charon won't even spare you another thought. The only morals Charon has are the morals of the contract holder, and it's not wise to cause trouble when his current moral compass is _Ahzrukhal_."

She thought about telling him that 'trouble' was practically her legal name with all of the enemies she'd made for being too righteous in such a lawless land, but she fought against it.

Instead, she smiled wanly and gave him a brief, reassuring stroke on his arm. "Thanks for the haircut, Snowflake."

And then she was already moving across the fractured marble tiles before he could protest, pushing open one of the doors.

He didn't know what to expect when it came to the overly loud "whispers" from the drunk patrons about the arrival of a new smoothskin. From what information he could gather, the guest was a young woman with near flawless skin and the most oddly colored hair. She was also the woman that Three Dog often talked about - the Lone Wanderer; the Behemoth Slayer; the Savior of Megaton.

The Wasteland Saint.

He grunted softly as he shifted against the wall, releasing some of the growing tension in his thighs and shoulders.

The only characteristic about the smoothskin that struck him with familiarity was the mentioning of her blue hair.

He surveyed the room, his watchfulness keeping the patrons in check as a memory on Mothership Zeta seemed to crawl, unbidden, into his thoughts.

_[-]_

_He downed another alien when his fist shattered the transparent space helmet and slammed into its face with enough force to crush its skull. Behind him he heard another alien fall after an energy weapon unloaded._

_He crouched next to his newest victim and started looting its body of precious power modules, all the while in tune to the sounds around him, including the slightly labored breathing of the smoothskin and the exasperated tone in her voice._

_"You know, if you're not going to tell me your name, then I'm going to __**give**__ you one so I can alert you next time."_

_He shrugged a shoulder before straightening again, his plasma grenades clinking softly on the belt of dirty, muted Enclave Officer trousers. He glanced at her, brow quirked._

_She was glaring at him in frustration as she retreated her Atomizer, her mouth pulled into a deep frown. Unfortunately for her as he goaded her with a smirk, she was anything but intimidating in the other half of the Enclave uniform._

_When they'd overpowered their captors, they had immediately set out to find clothes and more effective weapons other than the electrified batons, but it'd been for naught; however, he'd stumbled upon a dead Enclave officer in another prison chamber just as she'd freed a terrified Rivet City officer._

_When the officer bolted, he'd offered to chase after her and take her clothes so that she may have something to better fit her, but she'd balked at his insinuation that he would have to kill the officer to do so._

_So, here they were after a compromise: Him, standing in the Enclave's pants whose still too-tight fit threatened to unman him; her, being swallowed alive in the Enclave's too-large jacket._

_More than once he'd found his eyes straying to those bare, soft-skinned legs. Small feet; delicate, tapered ankles; slender calves; firm, creamy thighs._

_And just as well, he found himself more than once desperately trying to cool his blood when his cock would stir in male interest._

_And the mischievousness that flashed in those mint-green eyes in that moment did nothing for his strained nerves._

_"I just thought of the perfect name. I'm going to call you . . . __**Susan**__."_

_He choked on his spit, snarling, "__**No**__."_

_She simply smiled at him. "Well, until you tell me your real name, this one will be it."_

_He bore his teeth, but remained quiet. She was blatantly trying to manipulate him._

_But for fuck's sake, a woman's name?_

_She must have taken his silence as his answer because she just shrugged and waltz past him. "Suit yourself then, __**Susan**_."

_He swore under his breath as he grudgingly followed her, her resulting laugh serving to incense him further._

_They'd eventually encountered a handful of other smoothskins during their escape mission, including a talkative, Pre-War child who asked him too many questions about his appearance; a Pre-War soldier from the U.S. Military who asked him too many questions about his appearance; an Old World cowboy who attempted to __**shoot**__ him because of his appearance; an Old World Oriental warrior who was wary of all of them to be prejudice against just him; and a fucking ghoul bigot in the form of a fellow Wastelander._

_When he and his prison mate had finally transported back to the Wasteland, he knew that he had to get back to Underworld immediately. He didn't know just how much time had past, but he had already been heading that way before the abduction.  
_

_When he wordlessly turned to leave to begin his journey, he felt a small, warm hand touch his radiation-destroyed arm. He flinched slightly, purely out of reflex common with being a ghoul in very prejudice land, and halted mid-stride. He looked down to stare at the offending appendage._

_It was small and fair-boned, tortuously soft, and creamy pigmented. Her fingers were slender with strong but dirty fingernails, the nailbeds a beautiful and healthy pink. _

_And such perfection was gently caught in the bend of his elbow, showing the atrocious contrast of his own skin, or lack thereof - mottled with blazing reds, sickly greens, and charred blacks; uncomfortably inelastic; its texture resembling the very leather of his armor; abnormally high in temperature, possibly from the effects of the unholy amount of radiation that he had fallen victim to; the morbid exposure of intricate webs of blood vessels, threads of hard and taut muscle, and the thick, protruding ridges of his spine._

_He was a ghoul. __**No**__ smoothskin ever touched a ghoul willingly. None that he'd had personal experience with anyway._

_He lifted his gaze to hers, wordlessly demanding answers for her peculiar behavior._

_She just smiled something soft at him, her hand still maintaining the socially forbidden contact with his ruined flesh. If anything, she brazenly pushed her hand deeper over his arm, gently cupping the entirety of his inner elbow. _

_"I wanted to, you know, thank you. For everything. You saved me at least five times up there, and I don't think I would have been able to take out that other ship if you and the others hadn't been behind me, holding back those aliens."_

_He was incapable of saying anything, still rendered speechless from her insistent touching._

_"Listen, I don't know about you, but I thought we made a really good team up there. I was wondering if, well, you'd like to join me? I could really do with a reliable teammate out here. I mean, that's if you don't have anything to do. Maybe I should have asked that first? Jeez, I'm sorry. I don't think before a speak sometimes. Maybe you know that already? It's just that I was impre-" _

_She was self-consciously fumbling over her words again, but he didn't really take much notice. _

_She wanted him to accompany her as well? What the hell was going on? Either he was in the beginning stages of Feralism or this girl was as ridiculously eccentric as he had rationalized her actions of being._

_He struggled to find the proper words that wouldn't make him out to be too much of a prick. It was the most he could offer her for being the only one who hadn't treated him like another damn enemy up there._

_"While I . . . appreciate your offer, smoothskin, I will need to respectfully decline."_

_"Oh." Disappointment weighed heavily in her voice, her smile faltering. "All right then. Um, take care of yourself, okay?"_

_He grunted and turned away, probably more abruptly than he'd intended. He was extremely uncomfortable with her unnecessarily close proximity and the physical contact, as well as the way she looked at him. As he felt those warm fingers slide over his skin before dropping away, he felt an equally uncomfortable chillness replace them. _

_"Oh, hey."_

_He paused, tossing a guarded look over his shoulder. It was greeted with another smile, albeit smaller. _

_He felt his irk rising when he saw that familiar mischievousness in her eyes again._

_"No hard feelings about the 'Susan' thing, right? I was just trying to get you to spit out your name. If anything, if I'm never going to know it it, then I guess I should call you something more fitting, right?"_

_He continued to regard her suspiciously, but she apparently took his dutiful silence as encouragement._

_She pushed a few flyaway strands of her blue-dyed hair from her face and grinned, those light green eyes practically shimmering with mirth. "You have no idea how amazed I was when that Abomination backhanded you across the face and you didn't fall. Hell, you barely even stumbled! You would have thought it was Sally who had hit you, you know?"_

_He revealed nothing as he continued to watch her patiently. What was she getting at?_

_"Well, I thought it'd be fitting to refer to you as something strong; maybe even indestructible. Like the classic 'Superman' or something? What do you think?"_

_Instead of responding properly in some fashion, he merely hitched the strap of his shotgun higher on his shoulder and turned away again, beginning his journey back to Underworld._

_"All right, then! Take care, Superman! Don't kick too much ass!" she shouted after him optimistically. He briefly lifted his hand to her in a wave-less farewell._

_Indestructible?_

_He snorted softly, feeling a small smirk tugging at his lips._

_If she actually believed __**that**__, then she must not have seen him relocating his jaw after he'd won that specific fight._

_[-]_

He subconsciously fingered the joint where the bone would dislocate occasionally when he yawned.

When he had arrived back to The Ninth Circle, he knew that the Anti-Violence clause in his contract was the _only_ thing that'd kept Ahzrukhal from slaying him right there . . . or vice verse.

According to Ahzrukhal, he had been missing for ten days when the mission he'd been originally assigned was only supposed to take three.

He had tried to explain to him about the abduction, the aliens, and the space travel, but with every detail he gave, the more he sounded batshit insane to even his _own_ ears. He'd cursed himself for not taking something - crystals, ammo, weapons, tools, _anything _- as a souvenir from the ship to back up his otherwise unbelievable story.

Instead, he opted to just take his punishment rather than continue to attempt to convince the bastard of anything. It wasn't worth his breath, patience, or time.

So, now he was stuck with guard duty only. He was refused the luxury of going out into the Wastes again, whether it be for a monetary mission or to simply take a smoke break.

He could feel his blood pressure rising just dwelling on it, his arms tightening against his chest as he glared icily at any of the patrons who looked his way.

His mental leash on four weeks worth of restlessness, agitation, and impatience had been sorely tried earlier when one of the ghoulette drunkards started an uproar with her obnoxiously loud laughter and slurred speech.

The woman was lucky he didn't crush her wrist in his grip or yank her arm out of its socket when he had dragged her from the room, especially when her pathetic attempts at resistance only succeeded in pissing him off worse.

Now in a foul mood, he looked to the bed-for-rent area when he heard one of the back doors open. It was a wonder he felt anything in his current state of irritation, but his entire body stiffened when he saw _her_ round the corner.

For a mere moment in time, he hadn't recognized her. Her hair was no longer dyed such an atypical color, and she was wearing a stained, red jumpsuit in place of the combat armor that she had donned later while on the spaceship.

It was only when she locked those light green eyes with his that he was positive of who she was.

And it was only confirmed when those eyes lit up with mutual recognition.

The pub area of The Ninth Circle wasn't anything impressive and yet it wasn't what she'd been expecting.

It was small and barren, poorly lit, and smelled rather unpleasant compared to the saloon in Megaton. At the same time, after the recent talks about Ahzrukhal and his "employee", for some reason she was expecting the pub to look like it came straight out of a masochist's - or Raider's - dream: chains; medieval weapons and torture mechanisms; maybe even a cage holding a few crying children.

Feeling a little silly now, she continued to survey the area, taking note that the ghoul behind the bar must have been the infamous Ahzrukhal. That smile on his scarred features oozed something seedy and untrustworthy.

As she started toward him, she gave another sweep of the room.

And her gaze locked with the chill-blue eyes that were regarding her with a hardened and _familiar_ glare.

She didn't bother to hold back her gasp, a toothy smile blooming across her face.

"Superman!" she exclaimed with barely dignified delight, and she made an immediate detour for him.

_God, I forgot how huge he was_, she thought when she came to a stop in front of him, having to tilt her head back. "Hey, how have you - "

"_Talk to Ahzrukhal_."

She jerked a little at the rude cut off, the bite in his voice just as equally unexpected. A little offended by his unfriendliness, she furrowed her brows in confusion. "What? I was just -"

If his gaze were the Destabilizer that was currently strapped to her back, she would have been nothing but a pile of ash on the floor. She flinched away, staring at him wide-eyed when he leaned down to her, his eyes callous and cold as growled lowly, "I said: Talk. To. Ahzrukhal."

She swallowed thickly and slowly backed away, her eyes searching his questioningly as he straightened back up against the wall. His cruel gaze revealed nothing.

She stumbled and caught herself against the bar. A horrible realization was starting to dawn on her as she continued to stare at him.

"Don't mind him, my dear," spoke a raspier-than-normal male voice behind her. "I told him to direct any and all customers to me. Perhaps I should recommend that he a bit more welcoming about it? I'd hate for him to scare away pretty little things like you."

She watched the tall, armored ghoul tilt his head up, the exposed muscles of his face tightening when he clenched his jaw.

He eyed her coolly; _defensively_.

As if he believed she was judging him.

She clutched at her stomach, immediately feeling sick as she stared at him, struck momentarily numb.

_Charon._

His name was _Charon_.

Nearly every night for four weeks, she had put herself to sleep by entertaining little fantasies of what the massive ghoul's name could have been.

And now, in the cruelest act of irony possible, she would have done anything to take it all back.


	3. Chapter II

**Recommendation(s):**  
_Page Width:_ Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

_Light/Dark:_ This chapter is best read on the** dark **background setting because it deals with nighttime and dark thoughts.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"Is it true?" she barked, whirling to face Ahzrukhal, her temper smoldering as her stomach clenched with nausea. It was all she could do to _not_ take a punishing swipe at the bar owner's face, if only just to watch that disgustingly amused look disappear from it.

"Is _what_ true, my dear?" he purred, the rake of his voice holding a higher level of degradation than what she found was unusual for a ghoul. It grated unpleasantly up her spine.

"That man in the corner," she spat, gripping the edge of the bar in an attempt to restrain herself. "Is he a slave? _Your_ slave?"

Despite the heat of her increasing ire, she inwardly recoiled when those eyes grew menacingly cold.

"_Never," _he stated flatly with an air of feigned indignation, a prominent scowl gracing his decaying features. "Charon is no more a slave than you or I. He is my ever faithful _employee_. He protects the well-being of my person as well as my business. If I so much as point at something, he will hurt it without question or hesitation."

He braced his forearms on the bar's surface and leaned in close, his tone a raspy threat as he continued. "So, sweetheart, I suggest that you be a bit kinder in the way you speak to me if you don't want him leaving that little corner of his."

She frowned deeply and opened her mouth to tell the sleazy bastard what he could do with his 'request', her rashness threatening to throw her into a whole mess of trouble _once again_.

But a stirring of muscle and leather in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked up to see that Charon had straightened to his full and intimidating height.

She lifted her gaze to the frost-blue of his. There was a distinct warning in it - a warning that she behave herself, if only for the both of their sakes. He didn't want to hurt her, and she knew from memory that _she_ didn't want to be on the receiving end of his fist again.

_Or worse._

But everything that she had been told about Charon was a goddamn lie. Or, at least, was told out of ignorance born from fear and serious misunderstandings.

After all, she'd had firsthand experience with him to know that he _wasn't_ without a conscience or without free thought; that he _wasn't_ some mindless drone whose only purpose in life was to enact any and all orders given to him.

This wasn't the ghoul whom she fought side-by-side against an onslaught of hostile aliens and Guardian drones.

_That_ ghoulwas just as much of a conscious, feeling, thinking being as she and everyone else was. _That_ ghoulquestioned nearly every tactical decision that she had made on that ship, sometimes outright refusing some of the things that she'd told him to do - gave _her_ orders, even. _That_ ghoulwas capable of thinking for himself without prior directions, to the point that he'd been the one to come up with the plan that'd had them out of that forsaken prison cell from the very beginning.

So who was _this_ man standing in the corner - standing in the exact skin and armor of the ghoul she had parted ways with over a month ago? Who was this man who was making it clear that he was bound by the orders of someone who just threatened to use him against her, like he was nothing more than the inanimate firearm peeking over his shoulder?

Before she knew it, she was in a heated standoff with those hauntingly blue eyes, hoping he saw in her disappointment, confusion, and anger that she felt towards him.

He didn't budge. Not even a twitch of muscle or shifting of his gaze.

_Bastard_.

She swung her glare back on Azruhkhal, any and all rational thought out the window.

"Give me his contract," she bit out. And then immediately wanted to take the words back. Seriously? What the hell was she expecting to happen by issuing orders to strangers, let alone to strangers who wielded the powerful weapon that was the devout loyalty of the Ferryman?

Ahzrukhal threw his head back and belted out a loud, guttural laugh.

She dug her nails into her palms as she clenched her teeth together.

There was nothing _remotely_ funny about _any_ of this.

She _loathed_ Slavers.

And this dick had the nerve to play down the whole thing by insultingly referring to Charon's forced servitude as _employment?_

"'Give' you his contract? My silly girl, just who or where do you think you are? Because you clearly didn't catch my implication the first time, allow me to elaborate on what I said: Charon's services are practically invaluable. I paid quite a shiny cap for his contract and you would be a rather disillusioned little child if you think I'm just going to _hand it_ over to you, free of charge, simply because you're on a moral crusade against the circumstances that _he_ put himself in."

'He' put himself in? Being a slave was _Charon's_ fault?

'What is wrong with you?" she hissed, her eyes searching the amused glint in his gaze.

What _was_ wrong with him? She had, with some hardship, long accepted the cruelty of normal humans enslaving other humans.

But a ghoul owning another ghoul? Her experience with Gob and the brief conversations that she'd had with those in Underworld had proven to her that ghouls were _easily_ the most human of them all - that while the radiation took away their human appearance, the fallout of the war seemed to take away one's very humanity from those who _hadn't_ fallen to such a depressing fate, something of which she felt was _far_ more important.

"Nothing is wrong with me, child," he stated matter-of-factly with a sleazy smile that only infuriated her. "I am merely a businessman who sees an opportunity to earn what he gave up over half a century ago."

She gaped at him, rendered speechless by his audacity.

Did he just throw a _sales pitch_ to her? A sales pitch for the _freedom_ of Charon - freedom that was _his _bybirth right but instead was being treated like a cheap commodity by others?

How dare he. How _dare _he insult her integrity; her principles; her common _decency_.

He was insinuating, with that nauseatingly arrogant smile, that she had a price for her values like everyone else in the Wasteland.

And for one terrible, desperate moment - when she remembered all of the times that she could only sit back helplessly in the wake of kind, sweet, _wonderful_ Gob being verbally abused, taking sucker punches to the jaw, or getting swift kicks to the stomach when he went down - a whisper against her conscience had her actually _considering_ bartering for this notorious contract.

And in that same sickening moment, she realized that he was apparently right.

She _could_ be bought.

Pain shot up her arm when her fist collided with the horrible ghoul's mouth, his teeth cutting into her knuckles.

In the next instant, the leather shoulder strap of her Disintegrator was yanked over her head and she heard the weapon clatter to the floor before a thick, muscled arm locked itself around her neck and hauled her roughly up against a wall of armor and solid, heated muscle.

Her nails were instantly clawing at it, tearing at the bare, ruined flesh. She became quickly alarmed at how small her hands were in comparison to the size of the hardened forearm and bicep. Even the leather-bound wrist was impossible for her to wrap her fingers completely around.

The arm clenched suddenly, causing her to choke as her air supply was blocked. She immediately stopped struggling and was rewarded by the pressure easing from her throat again.

She swallowed hard and strained to look up. Her eyes met the grim expression on Charon's features, his pale blue gaze shadowed with something she couldn't discern.

"Char-" she croaked, but was cut off when he tightened his forearm against her windpipe again, and her eyes widened as her nails dug into the exposed muscle.

"Vicious thing, aren't you?"

She flicked her eyes back to Ahzrukhal to see him sneering at her, his eyes glittering with malice. There was a thin trail of blood running down his chin from the gaping wound in his upper lip.

She snarled at him, but it turned into a gag when the arm around her throat yanked her up harder against the broad chest pressed into her back.

"I want all of you to clear out," the corrupt ghoul shouted at the few patrons still in the pub. "_**Now**__!_"

When she saw them obeying the command, she felt the icy fist of panic grip her heart.

"No! Wait!" she cried hoarsely in spite of the forearm digging punishingly into her larynx as she continued to defy Charon's unspoken order to remain silent and cease struggling.

But her pleas to have someone, _anyone,_ step in and help her fell on deaf ears, and she watched in disbelief as they all scampered out, not even sparing her a second look.

"Charon," signaled Ahzrukhal over his shoulder, marching after the last patron and slamming the double doors closed, locking them.

Suddenly and wordlessly she was lifted by her neck, causing her to choke out a cry of pain. Then her world tipped on its axis, falling from her feet before crashing back up again in the form of the bar's marble surface, the wind forced from her lungs when she was slammed onto it.

Strong, gloved fingers then encircled her neck tightly, pinning her down.

Her hands immediately wrapped around the wrist when weight was applied, causing her protest an awful gurgle to her own ears.

"You and I need to have a little chat on proper etiquette, girl."

She swallowed audibly under the large, gloved palm, but she managed to level the grotesque bar owner with a murderous glare.

"As I said, my dear, Charon does everything that I tell him. Without even batting an eye, he could crush your neck; shoot a crater where your heart is; torture you; _rape_ you."

At that last threat, he drew a fingertip down her cheek.

Revulsion like bile in her throat, she twisted her head away violently, a her smolder anger outweighing her rising fear.

He grabbed her chin and forcibly turned her head back to look at him again.

"Or he could restrain you while _I _took such liberties, all of which at my command with no concerns of confliction that pesky morals and human decency. To think, you could have had _all_ of this power for only a _mere _couple or so thousand caps."

"Screw you," she snarled, her voice strained against the frighteningly strong grip on her throat. She bore her teeth at him. "Only ugly swine think this is just about caps."

He clucked his tongue, the patronizing look in his eyes causing her to sneer. His hold on her chin tightening almost painfully, and he wagged a 'tsk'ing finger at her.

"There's that pesky morality and human decency I mentioned."

With a wild cry of indignation she let go of Charon's wrist and took a deadly swipe, fingers curled into claws, at Ahzrukhal's face, hell-bent on damaging at least one of those eyes that judged her so cruelly.

But before she could even touch his skin, the crushing pressure on her throat was lifted in a flash and was around wrist, halting it scant inches from Ahzrukhal's mildly startled face.

"God damnit! Let go!" she cried, fury and desperation overcoming her, and she searched Charon's stoic features beseechingly, yanking on her captured arm. He silently grabbed her other wrist and shoved them both into the bruising grip of one hand before slamming them above her head against the bar's surface. Then the suffocating grip on her throat returned under his other hand, smothering her voice to a pitiful rasp.

"Still haven't learned your lesson on proper etiquette, I see," Ahzrukhal drawled casually, and she scrunched her nose as he braced his hands on either side of her head, hovering over her between the muscled arms holding her pinned.

"'Etiquette' _this_." And she spat on him.

Instantly, she felt just as repulsed as the expression on his face when that wad of spittle landed on his chin.

She _never_ spat on anyone - not even on the Raiders or Super Mutants who were always trying to kill her. It was such a vile, undignified act. But her need to degrade him as he was doing her was more important than her sense of self-respect.

She swallowed dryly against the gloved palm pressed against her throat, watching Ahzrukhal warily when all he did was slowly pull a dirty handkerchief from his suit's pocket and began to wordlessly wipe his chin clean.

The cold viciousness in his glare made her wish she had never even entered his godforsaken bar.

He made a show of busying himself with tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket, taking painstaking measures to straighten it. His facial expression was one of cooled disdain when he finally spoke.

"If she wants to act like an unrefined whore, than we will treat her as such. _Strip her, Charon_."


	4. Chapter III

**Recommendation(s):**  
_Page Width:_ Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

_Light/Dark:_ This chapter is best read on the** dark **background setting because it deals with nighttime and dark thoughts.

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_Author's Note_: First off, I want to apologize for taking as long as I did to update. I've been caught up in my classes and whatnot and I actually had a bit of a block nearing the end of the chapter.

If you haven't realized it yet, I've combined the original first and second chapters and gave them all some minor revisions. In fact, I'd like if you to gave them a re-read now that I cleaned up plot holes and inconsistencies!

Also, a big **THANK YOU** to all of you who have given me feedback and/or have started following the story! It means a lot to me to know that I'm pleasing you all with what I've come up with!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"No!" The panic that arose in her was like a splash of ice water across her body. She immediately started to fight, her mind going wild. _Oh, God, this is __**not**__ happening! It's not, it's not, __**it's not**__!_

But Charon's hands only tightened brutally, the bones in her wrists grinding as her breath lodged fast under his palm. She stared up at him, eyes wide under his bitingly cold gaze. Dimly, as she started to become light-headed from her shallow air intake, she heard Ahzrukhal speak.

"You will be partaking in this punishment as well, you defective cretin. And I swear on _your soul_, Charon, that if you kill this one because of another _convenient_ play of mercy like last time, I will lock you away somewhere far from here and leave you there to rot until even the Ferals won't recognize you as kin."

_Oh, God . . . they've done this before? And the bastard killed them?_

_As an act of fucking __**mercy**__?_

She held those impassive eyes with her own, her mouth pulled into a tight line. Her chin quivered slightly; her pulse thudding frantically in her throat.

In response, he did something that astonished her.

Those frost-blue eyes broke contact.

His gaze dropped away from her entirely as his warm, gloved hand slowly released her throat. His coarse fingertips were the barest of touches when they drew down the column of her neck and over her collarbone. And then they caught the tab of her jumpsuit's zipper and began pulling it down the length of her body.

She'd never been so consumed with the darkened hatred that she felt for him in that moment.

"Don't you _dare_ look away," she hissed venomously, her voice a painful croak as tears prickled hotly in her eyes. The warm, humid air of The Ninth Circle licked mockingly at her skin when the tab came to a stop at the apex of her thighs, leaving her exposed in nothing but her plain, white undergarments. "Don't you _dare! _You fucking _look_ at me when you do this to me, you goddamned _coward!_"

His jaw seemed to clench in response at her outburst. She could even hear his teeth grind.

But he staunchly refused to lift his gaze back to hers.

A sneer curled her lips as she felt his hand push inside her jumpsuit, the worn leather of his fingerless glove and leather bindings smoothing over her thigh.

She turned her glare on Ahzrukhal.

He was lazily braced against the alcohol cabinet, a lit cigarette sitting casually between his fingers. His half-lidded eyes were openly roaming over her flesh, a self-satisfied smirk on his rotting features.

Then he drew his eyes up to hers while taking a deep drag from the cigarette. Tendrils of smoke curled from his nasal cavities when he spoke.

"Finger her. Get her wet. I find that there is nothing more gratifying than crushing a woman's disillusioned sense of authority over her own body."

Without even showing her the decency of hesitation, that roughened hand slid back up her thigh and traced the elastic of her boy shorts before pushing deep beneath the fabric.

Her voice was raw with emotion, hot tears spilling over as those scarred fingers cupped her heat and began probing for her clit, her cry of unadulterated rage and hatred echoing off the walls as she struggled violently.

"Fuck you, you disgusting assholes! Fuck. _**You**__!"_

With a shrill cry, she kicked up. Her knee making solid contact with the side of Charon's face, knocking his head to the side. But, much to her bitter resignation after witnessing his past altercation with an Abomination, she figured the throb in her knee was more than what he felt in his skull.

"Oh, for fuck's sake - subdue her!" snapped Ahzrukhal.

He whipped his head back, a smoldering irritation in his narrowing eyes.

Baring her teeth, she responded by kicking up again; however, he blocked her with his arm this time. Scowling, he released her wrists to catch her under her lifted leg, spinning her body effortlessly to face him before capturing her thighs with both hands and yanking her to the edge of the bar's surface.

Spitting out a curse, she reared up from the marble surface, throwing a fist at his radiation-destroyed features, but he quickly recoiled, effortless dodging her attack and shackling her wrist in his hand.

"Damn you!" she shouted when he seized both of her wrists again, snapping them painfully taut behind her back. He sank his arm inside her open jumpsuit and looped it around her waist, then jerked her fully against his body.

Her voice caught in her throat and she stared up at him, wide-eyed.

Unnatural heat was rolling off his massive frame in waves, enveloping her as he pulled harder on her wrists, forcing her to arch against him.

Reduced to nothing but like a weak child in the midst of superior strength, she couldn't help but mentally kick herself for leaving behind Jericho this time around. What she wouldn't do to have that vulgar old bastard at her side right now.

He leaned in, crushing her breasts against the unyielding wall of his chest as he crowded close. She swallowed thickly, the sharp scent of warmed leather, gunpowder, and something intensely coppery and musky filling her nose.

Her mind was a mayhem of ferocious anger, fear, and an unrestrained desperation.

She'd been in _so _many perilous situations and dealt with numerous close calls in just the five months that she'd been traversing the Capital Wasteland. stumbling onto raider camps; being stalked by Talon Company mercenaries and their damn laser pistols; Jericho's hands; Yao Guai; literally _falling_ into a mirelurk nest; Jericho's hands; being _abducted_ aliens, walking in space, and destroying a whole other spaceship; getting caught by Moriarty being a bit _too_ curious with Gob; super mutants and their massive brethren; feral ghouls; _Jericho's goddamn hands_.

Now she was stuck between a rock and a hard place _once again_ - specifically, a minimum seven feet of immovable, highly-heated muscle and leather armor that was pressing against her exposed flesh, a steel codpiece digging uncomfortably into her inner thigh, his breath as hot and humid on her skin as the very atmosphere in Underworld.

But those glacier-blue eyes contrasted starkly to his near-burning temperature as they bore into hers - icy; emotionless.

The impatient and agitated jeers being barked at the both of them seemed to fade into the background as her focus tapered to just Charon and his impossibly large stature.

Swallowing, she willingly leaned up to him. Those harsh eyes watched her like a predator.

"Please, Charon," she whispered, her gaze holding his. She willed him to not look away again.

There was a faint softening around the hard edge of his mouth as something faintly remorseful seeped into those frost-blue eyes.

His slowly retracted his arm from her waist, the uneven skin of his fingertips ghosting over her skin as they drew along the small of her back and over her hip before slipping out of her jumpsuit completely. He brought it up and wrapped strong fingers around her throat again; however, there was no horrible pressure like before - only what was exerted in an attempt to coax her back down on the bar's surface.

Tears welled up once more, blurring her vision as a part of her continued to fight him, refusing to allow this to happen. The pressure at her throat began to increase.

It was a warning.

His breath was scalding against her mouth when he finally responded back in a scant whisper.

"Cooperate."

It was only one word, but there was so much self-disgust in his tone that it actually made her heart clench . . . _for him_. This goddamn ghoul was going to rape her or would kill her trying . . . and she felt _pity_ for him.

She almost laughed at the bitter irony.

There was a distinct hatred in this cool-blue eyes for what he was doing - for the bar owner who was ranting at him to _'fucking get on with it already'_ or that he was going to _'do it himself'_ and then _'punish'_ him later.

Her tears spilled over as she dropped her eyes to his chest, a horrible sense of defeat overwhelming her, and she slowly allowed herself to be gently pushed flat against the bar top, a pained twinge in her shoulders as they were stretched to their limits with him still holding her wrists behind her.

A searing knot stuck fast in her throat, but she stubbornly held it there, refusing to show any more anguish in front of these monsters. She would_ not_ give them anymore satisfaction in any of this.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away, her jaw setting defiantly as she tried to ignore how her abdomen muscles clenched under those fingertips when slid over her stomach before pushing deep into her boy shorts again.

She tried to think of Gob. Tried to remember how he felt against her when she had been sitting on one of barstools in the closed saloon, his trim waist entrapped between her legs; tried to remember the thrill that went through her when she felt the rigid bulge behind his pant's zipper teasing her inner thigh; tried to remember the heat of his hands when they'd pushed up her leather-clad thighs; tried to remember how his fingers felt against her heat.

But as she felt those radiation-roughened fingers probe between her folds, her attempt to fool herself into believing that they belonged to Gob was for naught. There was no uncertainty; no timid exploration; no treating her like she was delicate glass.

No. These fingers were self-assured in their ministrations; controlled and unhurried in their firm strokes as they slid up and down the length of her slit. These fingers were of a male who exuded experience; dominance.

Everything that was _not_ Gob - everything that was not _her_, even.

She forced back a sob when a soft gasp nearly slipped from her lips. He found her clit.

The pad of that thumb pushed over the sensitive nub again. It was a subtle demand for her submission.

She wanted to curse her luck. Of all the would-be rapists who failed to have their way with her, the one to actually restrain her had to also know how to stimulate a female body?

She tensed and clenched her jaw against the hot tendrils of pleasure causing her toes to curl in her shoes, becoming desperate when he stroked her clit once more - a firm coaxing.

He was as determined to make her enjoy it as much as she was determined to remain detached and sexless in the wake of the cruel violation of her body.

"What the - ? Kid!"

Those relentless fingers stilled in the same moment that she'd snapped head her up.

Relief slammed into her when she saw Snowflake standing there, an angrily appalled expression on his gnarled features, and in that instant she couldn't have found anything more beautiful. It was enough for that burning lump in her throat to wrench free.

"Snowflake!" she wailed in uninhibited elation, choking on the sobs that wracked her body. Tears flowed freely down her face as she started to struggle again, her will to fight renewed at the sight of him.

"You evil sons of bitches!" he spat. Something glinted under the pub's dim lights and she saw that he'd suddenly flourished a gleaming straight razor. He flipped it open with an expert flick of his wrist and tossed it into his other hand.

"Get the fuck out of here!" she heard Ahzrukhal shout.

But it fell on deaf ears. The ghoul stylist suddenly charged at Ahzrukhal, slicing the air at him with the sharpened blade. The corrupt ghoul stumbled backwards, tripping over himself in his panic as he narrowly escaped being maimed.

"Charon!" he bellowed.

The grip around her wrists and the heavy weight of muscle pinning her was gone in a blink, and she watched as Charon went for Snowflake.

Without thinking, she was already off the bar's surface and on the floor, scrambling for her discarded energy weapon, her heart slamming in her chest with adrenaline.

"I don't think so, girl."

She cried out as pain arched along her scalp when a hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and gave a cruel yank, stopping her only a few feet short from the Destabilizer. A polished shoe gave a swift kick to the weapon, sending it skidding across the room and out of sight.

The scent of stale alcohol and cheap cologne invaded her nose and her head was wrenched back to stare up at the rotting face of a sneering Ahzrukhal.

In that same moment, she caught Snowflake in her peripheral vision as he was literally _tossed_ over the bar, landing on his side with a pained grunt.

She looked up when the stilled air was broken by the _clink_ of a gun's safety being flicked off.

"Snowflake!" she shouted as she saw Charon round the bar with his shotgun trained on the stylist, looking royally pissed off. Blood was seeping into the collar of his undershirt from the fresh blade wounds adorning his face and neck.

Heeding her warning, Snowflake scurried to his feet and shot off, covering his head as he ducked for cover around the corner into the sleeping area. The shotgun exploded rapidly after him with the massive ghoul in hot pursuit, metal clinking with each automatic reload as chunks of debris flew in the air when the pellets missed their target and embedded themselves in the wall.

"You damn smoothskins are too much trouble."

She gasped when the fist tightened viciously in her hair and gave her head another jerk, forcing her to crane her neck to an uncomfortable angle to stare up at him as he towered over her.

He pulled his lips back to brandish a sadistic smirk. "But do not think we're done here, girl. This is just a minor interruption."

She felt her temper flare as her confidence swelled in her again.

"Except you don't have your attack dog this time to say that," she hissed, her glare searing. "And _you _weren't the reason why I went for my gun."

She reveled in the pain clouding of his eyes when she slammed her elbow into his upper thigh, but felt a little peeved that her aim was only a few degrees off from her actual target.

Spinning from his shock-slackened grip as he stumbled back, she flung her arms around one of his calves and yanked on it, destroying his balance and bringing him crashing to the floor.

His string of filthy curses against her and her mother was abruptly cut short when she threw her weight into a right hook, her fist colliding with his jaw in one vicious blow.

It stunned him enough to allow her time to jump on him, but when she tried to wrestle his arms behind his back, he slammed his skull against her temple.

Pain and white-hot light erupted behind her eyes and she cried out, falling off of him as she grabbed at her head.

When she saw him scrabble for purchase on the floor, moving for the rejected energy rifle, she gasped and lunged at him. In spite of her swimming vision, she grabbed fistfuls of his slacks and suit jacket, pulling him back.

"Damned slut!" he snarled nastily, shucking out of his jacket before turning and slamming the heel of his dress shoe against her collarbone.

She cried out again, flying back against the marble tiles with the jacket. Vision blurred, temples throbbing, and pain now blooming across her sternum and shoulder, she struggled to get to her feet but stumbled, falling to her side with a groan.

The sound of flat heels hitting the marble floor resounded off the walls, and those polished dress shoes stopped right in front of her.

And then she felt the cold, rounded muzzle of her energy weapon press into the side of her head.

"Shit," she hissed under her breath in the same moment that he bellowed Charon's name. She began to perspire as she stared at the dirty, cracked floor. _Think of something, think of something! Oh, God, think of __**something**__, Jill! Months of surviving this hellholish land, and you're going to let it end like this?_

"I have to admit, girl," the ghoul rasped disdainfully above her, "that in spite of your atrocious actions on my person and the ridiculous hassle that you've been, I'm still entertaining thoughts of fucking you. After all, there is something inherently special about a scrappy woman who also has flawless skin like yours. It's a crime that I actually _don't_ own a Collar. In my time, I've seen some of the most influential men become harmless, compliant pets in those beautiful devices."

She flicked her gaze around the room, frenetic and desperate. Her heart was pounding in her ears, nearly deafening her to the unhurried footsteps of Charon coming back into the room. She found his presence difficult to ignore when he came to stand directly behind her, assaulting her senses. Imposing height and breadth; unnaturally elevated body heat that rolled off him and prickled her flesh; uncompromised control that he no doubt perfected over God knows how many decades.

And she was wedged between all that and the muzzle of her own gun.

She was completely out of moves; trapped.

She might have been able to use Ahzrukhal's sadism against himself - put on a show as being more injured and weakened than she actually was, and then try to overpower him again and take back her weapon.

But when he'd called for his 'employee', she could only watch in helplessness as her last-ditch-effort plan fell out the window to its death.

She couldn't play at the liabilities of the pub owner's narcissism if she was actually going to have to go up against the pliable granite that was Charon as he acted as Ahzrukhal's hands.

"Get her to her feet, Charon, and tie her to a chair until I've decide what the hell I'm going to do with her."

When she felt one of those hands cup her under her arm, she flinched away violently, snarling; however, her blustering might as well have been empty and harmless for he simply grabbed her under her arm and pulled to her feet.

However, he made no move to guide her to a chair.

In fact, even through the haze of her anger and spitefulness, she couldn't help but notice how gentle he was when he'd forced her on her feet.

"Why are you just standing there? Bind her to a damn chair!" Ahzrukhal spat, the steel muzzle of her energy rifle having dropped to press into her shoulder.

And again, he made no attempt to drag her to a chair.

She tensed up, wincing as her bruised collarbone protested, when he instead dipped a long, leather-bound arm over her shoulder and down the length of her body.

But he made no untoward movements on her person except to render her bewildered and even a little frightened with the sudden turn of events when he quietly gripped the tab of her jumpsuit's zipper and drew it up her body, sealing the suit all the way to her neck.

When he eventually spoke, there was a chilled darkness in his roughened voice and it had her extremely nervous with him standing directly behind her.

"It would seem that you are no longer in possession of my contract, Ahzrukhal."

She saw the bar owner's eyes widened at the statement and for a brief moment, her alien energy rifle fell away from her shoulder, his stare dropping to her hands.

She followed his gaze to the grimy suit jacket that had been long forgotten but was somehow still clenched in her fist.

Swearing vilely, the Destabilizer was re-gripped quickly, but took a much higher aim at the ghoul behind her; however, before she could make a dive out of the way, the steel barrel of Charon's shotgun came up and violently knocked the energy weapon away, and then fired off an explosive round in the same moment.

She screeched in agony, clapping her hands over her ears as they rang deafeningly. An arm came around her waist like an iron band before she was twisted behind the solid barrier of Charon's body, the metallic _clangs_ echoing loudly off the pub's walls.

She watched in frozen horror as the massive ghoul stood over Ahzrukhal fallen corpse and continued to unload round after round _after round_ of flesh- tearing ammo into the motionless body, blood and decayed tissue and bone fragments coating the marble tiles and walls.

She started, feeling something wet land on her arm.

When she looked down and saw that it was tiny, bloody piece of Ahzrukhal's flesh, she almost lost it with how quick the bile rose into her throat.

As if Satan himself was upon her, she dropped the pinstripe jacket and spun on her heel, bolting from the pub area and speeding through the back doors, leaving Charon to continue his massacre on what was left of Ahzrukhal's headless torso.

She couldn't feel anything except the icy terror coursing through her veins; couldn't think of anything except her explicit _need_ to put as much distance between her and Underworld as possible.

Fuck the her weapons, food, and the Virgo II satellite dish sitting safely in Carol's Place; fuck GNR and Three Dog; fuck even finding her father! She didn't want to do this anymore - she had to get away; had to find some place to hide from this screwed up land of sociopaths and psychopaths.

Her mind and legs were on autopilot. She wasn't capable of registering anything around her, not even when she tripped and stumbled over pieces of debris in the lobby - didn't register the confused and concerned shouts of the few ghoul residents who were still milling about when she shoved past them; didn't register the expansive, poorly lit foyer when she burst from Underworld's entrance hall; didn't register the massive mammoth replica or fallen Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton when she sprinted past them; didn't register the stomping footfalls of heavy boots closing in behind her, the sound reverberating ominously off the high, stone walls.

She didn't register the cool metal of the door handle in her hands, heaving it open; didn't register the large, gloved hand slamming above her head against the door's surface, fingers splayed wide, and roughly shoving it closed again; didn't register her shoulders being grabbed firmly before being spun around; didn't register the heated, callused fingers gripping her jaw and forcing her to look up.

However, in that moment, everything came crashing back down on her when her panicked gaze locked with glacier-blue eyes.

Her head was throbbing; her hearing was muffled; her collarbone ached; her lungs burned from exertion; her breathing was labored and erratic; her heart was threatening to break free from her ribcage.

But she couldn't focus on anything but the monstrous ghoul trapping her against the museum's entrance door, his hand dropping from her chin.

He was towering over her, his breathing deep but steady even after having chased her. The flickering flames in the barrel behind him cast a foreboding shadow across his face, but she could still see the grim outline of his mouth; could see Ahzrukhal's blood speckled on the ruined flesh of his facial features, mingling with the blood seeping from the deep cuts on his cheek and jaw.

He opened his mouth then, his gravelly voice revealing the solemn gravity of their current situation.

"We need to talk, smoothskin."


End file.
